Ranson any more ammo, eh? Best to keep these ones quiet.’
Keep these ones quiet. In other words, the ones we don’t really have enough evidence to convict. The ones we send me in to deal with. The heavy gun. The good boy who does what he’s told.
If I wasn’t using Armitage the same way she’s using me, I’d be a bit offended about these dark ops. But doing stuff off the books is the only way I can follow up my own investigations without the Division getting suspicious.
Armitage’s cell phone rings. She asked me to set the ring-tone for her so I set it to Queen’s ‘It’s a Kind of Magic’. She hates Queen, though. Every time she hears the phone it makes her face crease with annoyance.
‘Yes?’ she barks. ‘No. Yes. Where?’ Armitage makes urgent hand gestures at me, miming writing with a pen. I get up and find one on her desk. She scribbles something down on her hand then hangs up.
‘Come on, then, pet. The game’s afoot.’
‘Is it?’ I ask. ‘And what terrifying case awaits Mystery Inc. today?’
‘Murder,’ she says cheerily. ‘Murder most foul.’ She rubs her hands together. ‘But first, a bacon sarni.’
Chapter 4
Armitage drives her old Porsche along a dirt road while I try to log into GHOST – the Global and Home-based Occult and Supernatural Treasury – on my phone.
Our victim is a man called Jengo Dhlamini. Apparently, he’s been the local ramanga to a tribal chief out in the midlands for the past two years, and Armitage said the word like I should know what it means.
Which I don’t, but I’m not telling her that.
I stare out the window while I wait for a cell signal. Sugarcane rises to either side of us, green stalks vibrant against the blue sky. We leave a cloud of dust behind us as Armitage navigates the road, swearing furiously as she swerves from side to side in a futile attempt to avoid the massive potholes and tractor ruts in the hard-packed earth.
My phone whistles, informing me it’s managed to log into the database. I wipe the sweat from my brow – no air conditioner in this car – try to ignore my worsening headache, and type in the word RAMANGA.
An image appears. A pathetic-looking man, skinny, haunted. Something of the animal about him. I scroll down and browse through the entry.
Turns out a ramanga is a sort of low-key vampire. They’re known the world over, but here in Africa they generally work for the royal families out in the kraals. If the tribal leader gets cut, it’s the Ramanga’s job to lap up the blood so it doesn’t go to waste. If the Chief cut his hair, the Ramanga has to eat it. Toenail clippings? Down the hatch. A severed finger? Yum-yum.
They started out as ceremonial vampires. Just servants who used to make sure the royal offcuts didn’t fall into the wrong hands for use in black magic. But over the years, the ramanga tribe of vampires took over the position.
The local Chiefs seem to think having your own personal ramanga is a status symbol, but back in the city where the various tribes of vampires live, ramanga are considered the lowest of the low. Scavengers, really.
‘Who reported the murder?’ I ask.
‘Anonymous tip-off. Went to ORCU first. They want it themselves, but some lazy bugger in their outfit passed us the wink.’
‘Are ORCU there now?’
‘Probably. Pissing their scent all over the crime scene.’
Wonderful. There’s a seriously competitive vibe going on between ORCU and Delphic Division. Basically, what it boils down to is the fact that we’re cool, and they’re not. They hate us, but every single one of them is desperate to be called up to the Division.
I suppose they’ve got a right to be pissed off. We get all the real supernatural stuff while they’re stuck with muti murders and the like. They’re always trying to crack a real case before we do.
‘You know a ramanga is a vampire?’ I ask.
‘’Course I do. That reminds me. Better get on the horn to your boyfriend when we finish up at
Keep these ones quiet. In other words, the ones we don’t really have enough evidence to convict. The ones we send me in to deal with. The heavy gun. The good boy who does what he’s told.
If I wasn’t using Armitage the same way she’s using me, I’d be a bit offended about these dark ops. But doing stuff off the books is the only way I can follow up my own investigations without the Division getting suspicious.
Armitage’s cell phone rings. She asked me to set the ring-tone for her so I set it to Queen’s ‘It’s a Kind of Magic’. She hates Queen, though. Every time she hears the phone it makes her face crease with annoyance.
‘Yes?’ she barks. ‘No. Yes. Where?’ Armitage makes urgent hand gestures at me, miming writing with a pen. I get up and find one on her desk. She scribbles something down on her hand then hangs up.
‘Come on, then, pet. The game’s afoot.’
‘Is it?’ I ask. ‘And what terrifying case awaits Mystery Inc. today?’
‘Murder,’ she says cheerily. ‘Murder most foul.’ She rubs her hands together. ‘But first, a bacon sarni.’
Chapter 4
Armitage drives her old Porsche along a dirt road while I try to log into GHOST – the Global and Home-based Occult and Supernatural Treasury – on my phone.
Our victim is a man called Jengo Dhlamini. Apparently, he’s been the local ramanga to a tribal chief out in the midlands for the past two years, and Armitage said the word like I should know what it means.
Which I don’t, but I’m not telling her that.
I stare out the window while I wait for a cell signal. Sugarcane rises to either side of us, green stalks vibrant against the blue sky. We leave a cloud of dust behind us as Armitage navigates the road, swearing furiously as she swerves from side to side in a futile attempt to avoid the massive potholes and tractor ruts in the hard-packed earth.
My phone whistles, informing me it’s managed to log into the database. I wipe the sweat from my brow – no air conditioner in this car – try to ignore my worsening headache, and type in the word RAMANGA.
An image appears. A pathetic-looking man, skinny, haunted. Something of the animal about him. I scroll down and browse through the entry.
Turns out a ramanga is a sort of low-key vampire. They’re known the world over, but here in Africa they generally work for the royal families out in the kraals. If the tribal leader gets cut, it’s the Ramanga’s job to lap up the blood so it doesn’t go to waste. If the Chief cut his hair, the Ramanga has to eat it. Toenail clippings? Down the hatch. A severed finger? Yum-yum.
They started out as ceremonial vampires. Just servants who used to make sure the royal offcuts didn’t fall into the wrong hands for use in black magic. But over the years, the ramanga tribe of vampires took over the position.
The local Chiefs seem to think having your own personal ramanga is a status symbol, but back in the city where the various tribes of vampires live, ramanga are considered the lowest of the low. Scavengers, really.
‘Who reported the murder?’ I ask.
‘Anonymous tip-off. Went to ORCU first. They want it themselves, but some lazy bugger in their outfit passed us the wink.’
‘Are ORCU there now?’
‘Probably. Pissing their scent all over the crime scene.’
Wonderful. There’s a seriously competitive vibe going on between ORCU and Delphic Division. Basically, what it boils down to is the fact that we’re cool, and they’re not. They hate us, but every single one of them is desperate to be called up to the Division.
I suppose they’ve got a right to be pissed off. We get all the real supernatural stuff while they’re stuck with muti murders and the like. They’re always trying to crack a real case before we do.
‘You know a ramanga is a vampire?’ I ask.
‘’Course I do. That reminds me. Better get on the horn to your boyfriend when we finish up at
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